You're Gonna Go Far, Kid
by KitCat Italica
Summary: Joker picks up an eight-year-old kid named Bruce as his protégée, and Batman makes a deal with six-year-old Jack to train him by his side. AU
1. The Lightning in Your Eyes

You're Gonna Go Far, Kid

Chapter 1: The Lightning in Your Eyes

**Ooooh, author's notes at the BEGINNING of chapters? Inconceivable! XD **

**So yup, here begins my first multi-chapter fic! Small for a multi-chappie, it's only gonna have 3, but still, I'm making progress! yay**

**This story is based off of the song "You're Gonna Go Far, Kid" by The Offspring. Give it a listen!**

**Basically, the premise of this story is that eight-year-old Bruce Wayne and six-year-old Jack Napier (I didn't want to have too much of an age difference between the two, and besides I think that's about what it is anyways) are transported by unknown means twenty-two years into the future and instead of meeting themselves in the future, they run into their future arch-enemies first and become their apprentices of sorts. Can you see where this twisted-up tale is headed? Stay tuned, and enjoy! :D**

Joker sauntered down the echoing stillness of the cavernous subway track, humming with pleasure and twirling his shiny new revolver around in his right hand. Tonight couldn't have gone more perfect. The train had hit the detonator at just the right second, blowing the machinery and passengers to smithereens in a plume of orange flame and black smoke. _One of his favorite sights._ But that was just the half of it, and the other half was now being performed by his team of henchmen around him, as they threw the desecrated body parts and hunks of bloodied metal throughout the course of the tunnel, a lovely surprise to the next morning's commuters. As the servants carried out their orders, their lord waltzed through the mayhem, the king surveying his kingdom of chaos.

Of course, he couldn't let his slaves have _all_ the fun, and that was where his revolver came in handy, ready to shoot at any lost soul unfortunate enough to stumble upon their handiwork. Or at an underling who didn't work fast enough. Or at anything else that caught the madman's attention.

And suddenly, something _did_ catch his attention: a flicker of movement behind one of the benches on the train platform. Without bothering to take aim, the Joker shot off his weapon in the dark, eyes lighting up as the familiar sound of gunfire pealed through the air. He hadn't hit anything, but he hadn't really been trying to; shooting guns was just _fun_ in itself, why did he even need a reason? Just for the hell of it, he fired a few more rounds into the air, yielding nothing but echoing shockwaves. It had probably just been a sewer rat anyway.

Then, his eyes shot back into focus as a very un-rat-like figure darted from behind the bench and streaked towards the exit. Smiling in anticipation of the chase, he clambered up out of the subway track onto the platform and bolted after him, firing madly in the direction of the figure. The sound of pounding footfalls ahead of him drew closer and closer as he gained on his prey, and he could almost make out the shadowy form in the darkness, as he rounded the corner, raised the revolver, and –

– it was gone.

Joker blinked in the pitch blackness, scrutinizing every possible manner the figure could have escaped or exited. But after careful observation, there remained no explanation: the person had simply vanished into thin air. Curious, Joker advanced into the darkness, but before he could take a step, a wild yell erupted in the air above him, and the source of the cry plummeted down on top of him, knocking him to the floor. Growling and struggling, Joker tried to pry the small form off of him, but the person – or kid, rather – refused to let go or let themselves get in the way of the gun trying to end their life. Joker rolled around on the floor, attempting to squish the kid enough to force him to release him, while trying to maneuver his revolver arm free of the child's death grip. Then he was taken completely by surprise as the boy clamped his jaws around his forearm, drawing blood and a cry of pain from the deranged clown.

Now officially pissed off with this pest of a kid, Joker dug his elbow into his attacker's ribs, knocking the wind out of him, but not before the creaking groan of the approaching subway train rattled through the station. They froze as the train hurtled past them, inches from their bodies. In all the confusion of the scuffle, neither one had realized just how close they had gotten to the platform's edge; one more roll would have had the train barreling over them along with the rest of Joker's goons. The men now lay in a ribbon of blood and guts on the tracks, making it impossible to distinguish the clownmen from their victims, as their remains lay intermixed in the dark, forgotten by all.

Joker smirked at the bittersweet irony of the situation, then returned to his pissed-off state as he remembered the kid, who had now released him in his shock of nearly getting flattened, and was crouched back a foot away from his adversary, ready to fight. Caught a little off-balance by how fiercely the boy was acting, Joker narrowed his eyes with a sudden grin, an idea forming in his mind. Now that the stupid brat had spoiled his grandiose plans for the evening, he had nothing better to do; why not play a game with him?

With that thought, his face split into an all-out lazy smile. His body relaxed, and the revolver was flicked carelessly to the side. He lounged back, eyeing the tense kid before him with a knowing grin.

"Well, now it's just you and me, isn't it?"

"Take off the rest of your weapons," the kid blurted out, still on edge from his near-death experience. "If you're gonna kill me, it's gonna be a fair fight."

"Well," Joker began, his lips twitching with his entertainment at the kid's uneasiness, "in case you haven't noticed, I'm, ah, not really one for playing _fair_. So…if you'll excu-"

His hand shot out to grab the revolver, but the boy was faster, and in a split second he had the silver glinting blade of a knife slapped against his opponent's wrist, drawing a thin line of crimson. Joker's eyes started with recognition: the knife was his OWN!

"You **stole** one of my knives?" he intoned, his low whisper dripping with lethalness. No one laid hands on _his_ precious knives and lived more than five seconds afterward. And especially, no one used them **against** him.

"People like you never carry just one weapon," the boy shot back smugly, knowing he had touched a nerve.

The sly grin microscopically returned to the clown's face, tingeing his expression with the force of death that lurked within his soul. "There aren't very many people like…me," he said quietly. A thousand threats poured from his tone of voice, and the boy knew it.

"Well, from the way you're acting, I can tell there aren't many people like me, either," the kid retorted, glittering at the fact that he was infuriating the man to no end. Joker was perplexed at his behavior. Here was a little bastard of a child – yes, a _child_ – who was matching wits with the most horrifyingly clever terrorist in Gotham. Yet, instead of cowering away and begging for mommy, the fierce light in his eyes just burned brighter, shining with astute cunning and malice. There was only one other person whose very spirit had dared to defy him this openly, and the similarities between the two people were starting to aggravate the Joker more and more.

"You know what your problem is, kid?" he asked, unable to take the child's obnoxious glare any longer. "You've got too much spunk, and not enough sense." Sure, he could sure fight smart and even downright dirty, but it took a sufficient mixture of courage and stupidity to take on the Joker.

"Well, you've got too much makeup and not enough breath mints," the boy countered smoothly.

Okay, he was _asking_ for it. The thousands of ways he could torture his kid as he screamed his final breath flashed through the Joker's mind, then he realized…the kid had just made a joke. And that was something that Joker could legitimately respect. His mouth curled into a snicker, eyes crinkling with amusement. "Touché," he said, conceding defeat. And with that, a sudden wild idea took hold of his mind. "Say…" he started, "I'm kinda…low on henchmen at the moment," he pointed out, gesturing to the bloodied mess to their left, "so…how's a pipsqueak like you want to join my team? Full benefits," he added with a smirk.

"You mean getting knifed and shot at in my sleep?" the boy asked sarcastically.

"Well, since you appear to have enough free time on your hands to hang out in abandoned subway stations and duel to the death with freaks like me, what else would you spend your time doing?"

"That's for me to know and you to find out," the kid taunted. Sighing deeply in renewed frustration at the two-faced sonofabitch, Joker stood up to leave, thinking of how exactly he'd pull off his next scheme with his sudden position of being short of staff, when the kid's voice quietly reverberated around him with his next word.

"Sure."

Joker turned back to the little brunette boy with the fiery eyes. _Oh yes, this kid may come in handy._ "You gotta name, kid?"

The boy smiled, a reflection of his newfound mentor's wicked grin. "Bruce," he replied. "My name's Bruce."

xxx

Batman tore through the night air in pursuit of the robber below him. Most small-time criminals had learned by now to surrender when the night creature came around, or else risk a beating. But this one had made a run for it, and was quite foolish to do so, as he slowed and panted for breath while his tireless pursuer hovered above him, ready to pounce.

And pounce he did. But this one was a tough cookie to break, and as luck would have it a well-aimed kick to the ribs winded the dark knight, and the lowlife sprang to his feet and sprinted away. Recovering quickly, Batman leapt after him, giving chase down the filth-ridden alleyway. Suddenly, a small skinny leg darted out of nowhere, tripping up the robber and sending him face first into a pile of garbage. Batman quickly apprehended him and left him handcuffed on the street corner for Gordon to find. His work finished, he took off down the alley, but not before a voice called out behind him.

"Hey, wait up!" the voice yelled. It was a surprisingly young voice, which startled Batman, and he turned to face the skinny, grimy, blond six-year-old boy running towards him. "Hey, I just helped you out back there! Don't I get a reward?" For a six-year-old, he certainly meant business.

Batman sighed inwardly. Plucky kid just wanted a thank-you. "Thanks, kid," he replied shortly, and made for the end of the alleyway to disappear into the shadows.

The kid, however, had other plans. "I can help you!" he cried to the retreating figure of the Batman, who stopped again. Great. Another wannabe sidekick. Not that he didn't admire some people's courage and spirit, but couldn't they see that he had enough on his plate without worrying about keeping tabs on a partner?

"You've helped enough. Go on home," he urged, hoping the kid would obey.

Unfortunately, such was not the case. "Don't have a home to go to," the kid announced. "See, I won't be any trouble for you that way. I can do this full-time! Besides, I can help yo-"

"Look kid, I don't need help," Batman interrupted with all the sternness of a parent disciplining a misbehaving child. He walked faster through the alleyway away from the kid, when all of a sudden the words blasted through his ears.

"I know where the Joker's hideout is."

Batman stopped. No, he thought, this kid _couldn't_…not after all the months _he'd_ spent trying to find it to no avail…but yet, he found himself turning to face the kid who now stood directly in front of him, piercing him with the brightest burning eyes he had ever been met with. In fact, the only person whose gaze had ever had that sort of effect on him was the aforementioned neighborhood lunatic. The association between the criminal mastermind and the defiant little squirt facing him now disconcerted Batman considerably, though he tried not to show it.

"…what did you say?" he asked, not sure if he could really trust the kid's word.

"I know where he is. All his bombs, all his plans, all his goons," the boy answered, his eyes glowing brighter with every word. "And what's more, I'll take you to him, in return for one little thing." He held up his pointer finger as he said this, brimming with delight.

Batman considered. It may not be the wisest plan of action to rely on a random kid off the street to locate the most wanted man in Gotham, but the manner in which the boy spoke…he seemed so…_sure_. So completely confident that he knew what he was saying was true. Out of curiosity, he posed the question. "What little thing, exactly?"

At that the blonde's eyes positively sparkled with joy. "Train me to be like you. Let me be your partner. Do that, and the Joker is all yours."

Batman was about to open his mouth in response when a group of five men jumped him from behind. Apparently, the robber he had just captured had buddies. Buddies that weren't too happy with the Batman pummeling their friend to a pulp. Quickly adjusting into his fighting instincts, he threw two men off of him and aimed a punch at a third, breaking his nose and knocking him out cold. The two he had thrown were then dealt with quickly with a sweeping kick.

Whirling around, the fourth and fifth members of the entourage had seemed to have vanished, until he saw them hanging upside-down from the third-story window ledge of the building next to him, gagged and bound with strong ropes. Standing beneath them, the proud grin on his face surpassing that of a victorious soccer mom, was the kid, the leftover rope resting in his hand.

Batman made his way over to the kid, staring in awe at the two trussed full-grown men who had been overpowered by a child. He turned to said child, and asked, "So, what did you say your name was?"

Knowing a victory when he saw one, the blonde triumphantly met his newfound mentor's gaze. "Jack," he answered. "Call me Jack."

* * *

**So there you have it, my first attempt at writing something not entirely tragic or emotionally draining! (Maybe that has something to do with the fact that it's not slash...XD) So anyhoo, tell me what you think, as always! **

**And I need to stop writing these things in the wee hours of the morning, it can't be good for my health. Woe is me.**


	2. Dance Fucker, Dance

You're Gonna Go Far, Kid

Chapter 2: Dance Fucker, Dance

Bruce Wayne had woken up in his mansion that morning still believing the darkened alleyways and hidden recesses of the black nights of Gotham City to be the worst, dirtiest, ugliest, most brutal hellholes he had ever laid eyes on.

Now, as he surveyed the sunlit playground of Gotham Elementary School, he realized he had been very, very wrong.

He had been watching the time-weathered institution from his vantage point of a half-finished office building around the corner for the past four hours, and with each passing minute he had become more and more dumbstruck with the stinging reality that was sinking in before his eyes: the battles fought outside late at night were _nothing_ compared to the misanthropic deeds carried out in _here_. In here, there were alliances, loyalties, cliques, and circles of hate to put any mafia boss to shame. Their drug deals were the secret swapping of coveted Snickers bars, to be silently enjoyed in the restrooms between classes; their pistols and semi-automatics were spitballs and wads of gum launched with slingshots; their political intrigue circulated school-wide as secret notes peppered with x's and o's found themselves in unsuspecting lunchboxes. While their parents fought the real war outside, within the academic halls the children mimicked back with their own microcosm of domination and fear, where everyone not in the pockets of the mob brats had to keep their heads down and fend for themselves, gripping their sacred lunch money as if their lives depended on it.

As the day had progressed, Bruce had slowly come to a startling conclusion: this was, in part at least, _his_ fault. His desperate antics to improve crime rates had pond-rippled through the city, reaching far more distant corners than he could have ever imagined. In the world of mobsters, punks, wild bats and killer clowns – a world that he had unwittingly helped create – what choice did the children of that world really have but to respond in the best way they knew how?

Though guilt-tripping himself was not the primary motivation behind Bruce's daytime people-watching activity; the actual cause for his excursion came in the form of the lanky youngster at the back of Miss Thatcher's kindergarten class, who was quietly listening to show-and-tell. Although surrounded by a dozen other wide-eyed six-year-olds, he stood out starkly in Bruce's eyes by his…demeanor. While his classmates sat criss-cross-applesauce with the most angelic of looks on their faces, Jack had stowed himself in the corner, limbs folded languidly about him, his eyes ebbing with that fluid, stormy light that both appalled and fascinated Bruce so much. It was almost as if he were…_bored_, Bruce thought. The kid was a genius; Bruce had no doubts about that now, after being constantly outsmarted around his home by the little devil with a variety of practical jokes (the firecrackers in his toilet had been a particularly nasty experience; his throat was still sore from screaming at the gleeful demon). Finally, he couldn't stand the kid's presence any longer and had demanded that Jack start attending school, for the betterment of _both_ their minds. However, Bruce, knowing _exactly_ what the prodigy was capable of, had found he couldn't leave the boy unsupervised in a public place he hadn't been keen on inhabiting in the first place, so he had staked out the school, making sure his ward wouldn't cause _too_ much trouble when left to his own devices.

But, so far at least, Jack had been relatively quiet. This perhaps unnerved Bruce more than a ruckus would have, for at least that he could handle; with this stubbornly silent charade Jack was putting on, Bruce had no idea what he might be cooking up in that damned head of his. It was like waiting for lightning to strike, or a time bomb to explode. _No, bad metaphor!_ Bruce mentally berated himself. It was bad enough that the child's _actions_ constantly reminded him of his archenemy; the last thing he needed was to start associating Jack in his mind with _bombs_…

"Now…wasn't that a wonderful story, class?" Miss Thatcher asked, a single tremor in her voice betraying her nervousness towards the storyteller in question: Antonio Falcone, son of the infamous crime lord himself. Although his father was still heavily medicated in Arkham, it was common knowledge that the boy was heir-apparent to the drug kingdom, and as Miss Thatcher's teenage son still depended on obtaining his heroin from said kingdom, she stood no higher on the school's food chain than the students around her. Antonio knew it, as did his cronies, and sniggered arrogantly. Jack's eyes narrowed to mischievous slits, an imperceptible smile playing about his lips.

"Well, I'm not sure 'wonderful' is the exact word I'd use to describe it," he said, causing everyone in the room to swivel around, craning their necks in the direction of the voice in an attempt to locate its daring source. "Cute, maybe. If perhaps lacking a few crucial details."

By this point, Antonio had found his critic, and was torn between his outward air of intimidation and his inner state of confusion. The most response he had ever received from his hideous show-and-tell narratives was a mixture of uproarious laughter from his followers and timid clapping from his teacher and the rest of the class. Having someone call his presentation _cute_…it was completely foreign. And he did not take kindly to having his tight-fisted control suddenly rocked from normalcy. Not one bit.

Completely unperturbed by the searing glare he was receiving from the junior crime lord, Jack continued with his jest. "So, you say that your puppy what's-his-name…Bubblegum? Bon-Bon?"

"Bonesaw," Antonio growled through gritted teeth as he met the blonde with a burning gaze that clearly would have vaporized its target if at all possible.

"Yes, Bonesaw," sniggered a very much non-vaporized Jack. "You say that _Bonesaw_ fought off a fully-armed pack of twelve men _just_ as they were about to break into your mother's bedroom?"

"That's right," the little Roman grunted.

"And that the scar on your arm is from one of their knives as you blocked it from stabbing your sleeping mommy, who _never_ woke up during this entire showdown?"

"That's what I said, isn't it?" Antonio snapped, unable to stand the blonde's mocking tone any longer. "She's a heavy sleeper!"

"Oh, I'm sure that half the men in Gotham can attest to that fact," Jack quipped smoothly. "Actually, I believe that's the most truthful sentence you've spoken all day."

The silence previously found abundant in the classroom was finally broken with Jack's jab at Mrs. Falcone, as nervous whispers spiraled through the air, spreading as fast as the pallid tomato coloring that was seeping over Antonio Falcone's face.

"But…" returned the smug voice, cutting through the commotion and instantly holding sway over the mesmerized class, "…I think the most…_ludicrous_ aspect of your already-far-fetched tale would be the premise of your newborn puppy having such a…_potency_ of spirit instilled with such…_natural_ fighting tendencies that at two weeks old it finds the fortitude to viciously tear a man's _ear_ off and then proceed to rip his buddies' throats to bloody chunks – all in the name of his new master, whom he has known for only four days of his short-lived life."

"MY DOG WOULD TEAR YOU APART!" Antonio screamed, "AND HE'D PEE ALL OVER YOUR SORRY CARCASS!"

Miss Thatcher's eyes darted helplessly from boy to boy, unable to comprehend what was happening, let alone process that such sophisticated multi-syllabic words like "ludicrous" and "fortitude" could be spewing out of the mouth of a kindergartener as smoothly as a politician's.

"Oh, is that a trick he learned from you?" Jack inquired innocently, baiting the hook. Antonio's hands curled into fists.

"Or maybe from your mother, who can't seem to keep her bodily fluids to herself?"

– Line.

"Or perhaps from dear old _daddy-o_, who can't even wipe the drool off his own chin without screaming about the voices in his head?"

– Sinker.

Antonio flung himself at Jack, screaming "**MOTHERFUCKER!**", but the little motherfucker was ready, as the shaft of his newly-sharpened pencil that had been hidden up his sleeve fell into his waiting palm.

xxx

Joker yawned widely and stretched, contorting his body in such a way that he was sure would have driven his Bat wild. He grinned at the thought, and then allowed various fantasies to play through his head as he held the stretch on top of the roof of the law firm a block from Gotham Elementary. After about thirty seconds he relaxed the pose, and then returned to his previous activity of pressing his stolen pair of binoculars to his raccoon-rimmed eyes, spying on Bruce. After a week of showing him all the different weapons at their disposal and all the different schemes he had waiting in line, Bruce had felt he needed a change of routine and had asked the Joker if he could attend school for a day, like a normal child. Joker, after laughing hysterically at the notion, had given it some thought and decided it couldn't hurt, and could even play to his advantage – who knew what hell the boy could raise in the weather-beaten building when left alone! And as an inside man, the kid certainly had the upper hand on the Joker; while cops and nurses he could get by on, it would have been quite a feat for the psychopath to successfully disguise himself as an eight-year-old.

As it was, the true eight-year-old was sitting in art class, where he and twenty other second-graders were silently free-drawing. Most teachers frowned on the idea of giving children's inner creative minds free reign in Gotham City, after so many blank manila papers returned home decorated with gory depictions of mutilated corpses flying out of exploding hospitals, yet Mrs. Bell, the art teacher, insisted that it "stimulated the brilliant minds of our city's future into dreaming big and reaching for the stars!"

Though at the moment, all that it made the classmates reach for was the incoming note from their neighbor; though they also drew pictures as they were told, the term "art class" had long ago been translated in their minds as "Passing-Notes Hour". The extent of their skill of social networking and stealth was unparalleled as they carried on animated conversations via paper trail whenever Mrs. Bell's back was turned.

As Bruce finished the shading on the barrel of the AK-47 he was drawing (the one Joker had promised him three days ago as he had eyed it hungrily in their warehouse hideaway), he could have sworn he heard a giggle from across the room. Startled, he looked up, only to lay eyes on the most beautiful girl he had ever seen in his life. Her smooth black hair parted into two full pigtails at the back of her head, and her soft, full lower lip stuck out mischievously with the aura of a juicy secret. Her eyes were fixed on the paper in front of her intently, almost as if she had quickly looked down from where she had been previously staring. Yet Bruce would have bet his future AK that she had been looking at _him_ not five seconds ago. Irked that she had not continued to do so, he lowered his eyes back to his illustration, only to feel eyes burning into his forehead. Hair on the back of his neck standing on end, he snapped his head back up, only to meet the top of the girl's scalp again, lips curled into an even wider grin. Sighing, Bruce turned back to his artwork, only to hear the mysterious giggle return to his ears. He quickly looked up again, this time meeting the girl's eyes full-force.

And what eyes they were! Their blue, oceanic depths pierced his with their laser beam beauty and mystique. Flattered that he was allowed to be met with such a gaze, he tore off a corner of his masterpiece – a small sacrifice for the masterpiece sitting across the room – and scribbled his message onto it, carefully folding and addressing it with her seat number: B15. His heart beat faster as she unfolded it with her small, delicate fingers and perused its contents with her sapphire orbs:

_What's so funny?_

Her face breaking into a smirk, she elegantly looped her pencil on the scrap in reply and sent it back to his aptly-chosen seat, C4. Hastily tearing open the note, he read:

_My friend in B16 is drawing a picture of you._

Startled, he darted his eyes back towards the mystery girl who was staring right back at him in B15, then scanned his gaze to her left towards B16. He very nearly gasped aloud. How had he not noticed _her_ before? Silvery-blonde tresses framed the porcelain face of the equally beautiful girl seated there, her hazel eyes watching him with thoughtful intrigue. Meeting his gaze, she smiled, shared a knowing look with her blue-eyed friend, then bent back over her paper, drawing feverishly. Drawing _him_, Bruce realized. A sudden bout of courage possessed his will, and he picked up the paper and wrote down his query to the pair whose attention he now held. His body all but buzzed with excitement as they both craned their necks over the note:

_How's it look?_

They giggled again and the blonde leaned over to whisper something in her friend's ear, something that caused her whole face to burst with silent laughter. She nodded vigorously to her companion-in-mischief, and gracefully wrote back her reply, which Bruce couldn't have waited any longer for:

_Nothing compared to the real thing._

_The foul temptresses!_ Bruce mentally cried out as his stomach tied itself in knots. He now had no idea whether the girls had meant their last correspondence as a compliment or an insult, and thus he had no idea how they felt about him. Were they flirting, as he hoped they were, or just teasing him? Refusing to abandon the chase so quickly, he passed on his burning question in their direction.

_What are your names?_

Yet before the two sirens could open the note, a gruff hand snatched it up and ripped into its contents. A hand that belonged to Nico Maroni, who was son of the late Salvatore Maroni, and had just been passing by to turn in his finished picture (of a certain former district attorney bursting into flames and blackening the _rest_ of his face), when he had noticed the two giggling girls about to delve into the note between them. Now having claimed that note, his beady eyes scanned its contents. His expression darkened with every word he read, and then he picked up a pencil to write out his own reply as the lunch bell rang.

As the students lined up to hand in their drawings and proceed to the playground, Nico slipped the note in front of C4's occupant. Hands trembling with rage, Bruce read the message scrawled over his own.

_Look at those two again and I'll kick your ass._

Bruce looked back up to meet the dark eyes that glared murder into his own, before turning to join his comrades for lunch. The two girls followed close behind him, their faces shamefully red and tears brimming from their beautiful eyes. The brute's arms wormed their way around the pair's waists.

With that gesture, the pencil in little Bruce's hand snapped in two as his hands became tight fists. His jaw set with fury, his murky eyes began to swirl with cold pinpricks of wrath, a smile prodding at the corners of his mouth.

Lunch was going to be fun.

xxx

Crouching behind a playground bench, Jack eyed the throng of yammering students, waiting for the opportune moment to join them. Giving the principal the slip to escape detention had been easier than he'd thought, as the balding old geezer had frustratingly dialed over and over the number the child had given him and time and time again tried to explain that he was looking for Jack's parental units, not Bimbo's Bonanza. What made Jack even happier than his own easy getaway, however, was the triumphant fact that Antonio Falcone had _no_ such option; he seriously doubted that he would be seeing anything other than the interior of a hospital room anytime soon. What little he would be able to see, with only one eye. Jack laughed at the thought of little Tony, staggering around with an eye patch over his right eye for the rest of his life, pitifully tapping one of his mom's lovers on the leg with a white cane, begging for spare change. With that hilarious image in mind, he made his way toward the crowd of hungry children waiting in line for pizza.

Yet before he could reach the front of the queue, a rough hand grabbed each of his shoulders and pulled him back. He rolled his eyes; he should have known the brat's little cronies would come looking for him.

"Isn't someone supposed to be in detention?" a voice hissed in his right ear.

"Yeah," another chimed in to his left, dripping arrogance, "especially someone who apparently knows _so much_ about the Falcone family."

"Wouldn't want to be caught out here," scoffed a third. "With knowledge that dangerous, someone might get…_hurt._ We wouldn't want that, now would we?"

"Oh, no," the first voice answered his partner. "Perhaps we'd better escort him back to where he _belongs_." And with that, the hands on his shoulders tightened painfully. Jack, however, had stronger resolve than his aggressors, and suddenly, an idea popped up on the horizon of his thoughts.

"Hey, I haven't been here more than a week," he protested, "I had no idea that that…_knowledge_ was so forbidden. I thought everybody knew about it. At least," he added innocently, "that's how they made it seem."

He felt the split second of hesitation hover around his opponents, and that was all he needed to know he had said the right thing. They whirled him around to face them, or at least face up to them; they towered over him, two burly fourth graders and an ugly fifth grader who loomed over the entire crowd. It was obvious who was in charge here, and the leader's next words were the quietest, most threatening sentence his fellows had ever heard him utter.

"…**who** made it seem that way?"

Jack, always one for thinking on his feet, scanned the crowd of students around them before settling on who seemed to suck in the most authority: a tall, wiry third-grader who was twisting a kindergartener's ear until they pitifully whined "Uncle" and gave him his Milky Way bar. The mob bully pushed his prey away, a sneer splotched across his face that radiated tyranny.

Jack pointed at the gloating figure by the vending machine. "Him, over there. He was going on about how the Falcone family lost their gambit for power ages ago, and Carmine getting thrashed by the Batman just sealed their fate as wallflowers, and-"

But his foes had stopped listening long ago, and had let the six-year-old's words glaze over them, fueling the hatred that gushed from their eyes towards the bully in question. They stalked off in the direction of the vending machine, muttering something about "Galante pricks," all thoughts of squashing the blonde evaporating from their minds. In his deliberate haste, the fifth-grader never even noticed as a small, round object fell from a nimble hand into his back pocket.

xxx

Bruce took a step forward in the slowly progressing lunch line, trying as hard as he could not to seek out the two beautiful faces from art class. At the moment, he was attempting to focus his attention on finding the thug who stole them away. But Nico Maroni was nowhere in sight. That is, until Bruce felt a large shadow shroud him in darkness from behind.

"You understand what I told you, short stuff?" the menacing voice asked him to his left. "One wrong move towards my girls, and you're lucky to be breathing in the next ten seconds."

Used to far worse threats from the Joker, Bruce shrugged it off. "Well, maybe I'll get lucky," he murmured back, suddenly spying a silvery-blonde head in the lunch line in front of him.

"What did you say, pipsqueak?" Nico growled, taking a step closer so his breath mingled hot in the air around Bruce's face, who might have gagged were he not accustomed to the overpowering stench of his insane, unhygienic mentor. As it was, he barely noticed, as his gaze had suddenly been drawn to the foreground of the blonde girl, towards three murderously livid moblings marching in their direction, eyes fixed on the vending machine behind him. Seizing his chance, Bruce extended a leg out in their path, effectively tripping one and sending the largest face-first into a passing first-grader's lunch tray, splattering his face with chocolate milk and pizza sauce. Everyone in the vicinity laughed as the only one of the trio who remained standing scraped his two friends off the floor, whirling to face Nico.

"What the hell was that for, Maroni?" their leader exploded, pushing the kid squarely in the chest while chocolate milk still dribbled from his chin.

"What was _what_ for, Falcone?" Nico shot back. "It's your own damn fault for being so stupid and clumsy!" He pushed him back roughly.

"Venetian filth!"

"ROMAN SCUM!"

And with that the two were at each other, tumbling to the floor in their hate-filled fight. The two fourth-graders, suddenly remembering their mission as ridiculing laughter broke into the air, launched themselves at the wiry, chortling Galante. As they tore his hair out in chunks, they crashed into the vending machines, sending a downpour of Fruit Roll-Ups, Nutter Butters, and Ice Cream Sandwiches over their heads.

That was the final straw. Every child in the entire building had been bullied, put down, and psychologically tortured from day one by one of the three warring families rolling around on the floor, and the promise of candy to complete their sweet revenge was all the incentive they needed to leap onto the five young criminals before them and join the maddened fray. The playground quickly dissolved into chaos as fierce punches, kicks, scratches, and bites filled the air, accented with shrieks and battle cries as the progeny of the oppressed populace enacted what their parents couldn't afford to do.

It was then that the smoke bomb planted in the fifth-grader's back pocket went off.

The raucous screams spiked louder and higher in pitch as a dense haze seeped through the air, blinding and choking the children and adding to the confusion. But the frenzied youth didn't care; all they wanted now was to bite, to tear, to scream, to release their pent up frustrations at a world that seemed to have turned its back on them until this golden day had dropped out of the sky to fulfill their needs for retribution. Every noogie, every swirly, every Wet Willie, and every taunting and beating was avenged that day, as the growing tumble of limbs and belongings mixed together, using any means possible to give pain and thus take away satisfaction.

Bruce Wayne sat in his parked Lamborghini, eyes and mouth hanging wide open at the display. He had just been on his way to pick up his wayward ward from detention (after witnessing him drive a pencil into the eye an unsuspecting, albeit deserving, Antonio Falcone), ready to read him the riot act for the umpteenth time, when this had happened. It _had_ to have been the kid's fault; there was no other possible explanation for what had just occurred. Unless, of course, the Joker had been behind it, but Bruce seriously doubted that. What business would the Joker have in watching elementary school kids tear each other to pieces without blowing them up, or involving the adults as well? No, it _had_ to be Jack, Bruce was sure of it, and was not looking forward to finding the child in the midst of that horrible mess.

As if on cue, materializing out of the smoke, not a scratch on his body, the largest and widest of grins spanning his face, was Jack, chocolate coating his mouth as he chewed victoriously on an abandoned Milky Way he had found. Having spotted the sleek vehicle parked on the outskirts of the playground, he had decided to take his treat and leave the pandemonium he had caused to take its course.

Bruce got out of the car and stomped over to the freakishly delighted boy, who had stopped to turn back towards the smoke-filled brawl, surveying his work.

"Who's the motherfucker now?" he intoned, his eyes all but glowing in his victory.

Upon hearing such an unremorseful statement from the child, Bruce shot a look of venom towards him.

"Get your ass in the car. NOW."

Jack sneered at his watchful guardian's wrathful command, but obeyed. "You can't say that wasn't brilliant, though."

Bruce slammed the car door shut, then paused for a second outside the vehicle with his back to Jack, trying as hard as he could to conceal his laughter.

No, he definitely couldn't.

xxx

The blonde-haired, hazel-eyed second-grade girl spun around wildly, searching for her friend. They had just been together a minute ago gossiping about the boy from art class, but then with the ensuing chaos had been separated, leaving her to dodge blows all on her own. Suddenly, she spotted a head with two black pigtails, and quickly leapt over two fifth graders being sat on by a feasting kindergartener, towards the familiar face.

"We've gotta get out of here!" she screamed, hoping her friend would recognize her voice over the din of the battle. She did, and lifted her head to meet her blue eyes with the hazel ones directed at her.

"I know!" she yelled, but not before a gruff hand grabbed her arm and pulled her toward its owner.

"C'mon," Nico ordered. "Come with me."

But the girls had had it with him, and the pigtailed one mustered all her courage – and spat in his face. He cried out in rage, and was about to yank one of her gorgeous pigtails –

– when a fist appeared out of nowhere and smashed into his face, forcing him backwards on top of a knot of writhing, kicking bodies, who quickly enveloped him into the pile.

The hand shook itself quickly, then grabbed the girls' hands, leading them out of the strangling smoke and away from the mob. Once a safe distance away, the three eight-year-olds panted for breath. Bruce recovered first, and turned back to the anarchy behind them, his eyes lighting up with glee as he pictured Nico Maroni getting the beating of his lifetime.

"Now dance, fucker, _dance_," he murmured, reveling in his victory.

"Wow," came an awed voice behind him, throwing him out of his reverie. "You're so…_brave_."

Bruce faced his beautiful blue-eyed admirer, then allowed a slight smile to take over his lips. "Well, I try," he smoothly answered.

"Not to mention cute," the hazel-eyed blonde put in, joining her friend in wrapping an arm around him, flanking him as they walked away together. "What else is there to know about a guy like you?"

"_Well_," Bruce began, as he allowed his arms to settle naturally into place on both girls' shoulders, "there are many things to know about a guy like me. And even more things…" he added in, his voice dropping dramatically to a low whisper, "that _no one_ should_ ever_ know about."

The girls giggled as they strolled to the edge of the playground, where Bruce and only Bruce could see the glinting eyes of his guardian from behind an opened newspaper on the other side of the street.

"Well, gotta go, girls. My ride's here," he said, releasing them from his arms. "Maybe we'll meet again, but if not, farewell." And with a flourish and a bow, he crossed the street, leaving two hysterically giggling girls running back towards the playground.

Joker folded the newspaper and rose from the park bench, his eyes never leaving the retreating forms of the beauties. Bruce noticed, and turned back to watch his women go.

"No ladies at the warehouse," Joker chided, bringing his eyes to wander towards the boy, gauging his reaction.

Bruce sighed, then shrugged and turned to go. "It was fun while it lasted," he conceded, hands in his pockets.

Joker chuckled at that, and in two long strides caught up with the kid, and mimicked his ward's previous action by putting his arm around Bruce's shoulders, earning a rueful smile from the eight-year-old to match his own.

Yes, it certainly was.

* * *

**HAHA! Chapter 2 is up, and at 4AM on Monday morning! Who's got resolve now? Yep, I used to make sleep my first priority, but not anymore! Apologies if you caught any typos, if you did please feel free to tell me about them, as well as what you thought in general, in a handy-dandy...REVIEW! Yay ^^**

**So Jack gets to walk away eating a candy bar, and Bruce walks away with the girls. Doesn't get much better than that, huh? And they both believe they were solely responsible for the fight, and remain COMPLETELY UNAWARES that their other half was even there at all. MWAHAHAHA! **

**Yeah, I'm just realizing that this is kinda crappy author's notes, seeing as I'm writing them at 4AM so I'm a little high from sleep deprivation and completion of another chapter, so I think I'm just gonna cut my losses and rewrite these later.**

**Oh, PS I added in Jack's teacher's name as Miss Thatcher as a nod to A Knight's Tale (which I absolutely adore). Mrs. Bell just kinda came into my head. She used to be my elementary school nurse...beyond that, no connection to anything, other than the bell ending her class. ...yup... Ok, this whole author's note is total shit, I'm going to shut up now. Hooray!**


	3. It Was Really Only You

You're Gonna Go Far, Kid

Chapter 3: It Was Really Only You

"But I wanna come too, Bruce!" Jack whined as he plodded after the billionaire into the Batcave. "You _promised_ I could help on this one!"

"_Not_ tonight," Bruce shot back through gritted teeth for the fifteenth time. "In case you forgot, you blew that chance when you set off a smoke bomb in an elementary school after starting a riot on the playground. And _don't_," he shot a glare back at the kid, "get me started on the pencil."

Jack huffed through his nose, pouting overdramatically as he watched the Batman pull on his gauntlets. "You are **intolerable**," he fumed.

"And you," Bruce answered as he slid his cape on over his shoulders, "are not setting one foot outside the door tonight. Now get yourself back upstairs before I – "

Suddenly he realized Jack was no longer paying attention to his stern orders, but rather to the array of monitors on the wall that he had planted himself in front of. His eyes rounder than saucers, he stood at attention, transfixed at the incoming news report on the screens before him. Bruce silently crept up beside him, reaching to turn up the volume.

"…and there appears to be no sign of what exactly set off the tear gas," Mike Engel continued over the roar of the chopper circling the gas-emitting, rotten warehouse, "but police encourage everyone to remain calm and stay inside with all doors and windows secured shut. I repeat, DO NOT go outside; conditions are becoming more and more hazardous, although we strongly urge everyone not to panic and remain calm. Police units and SWAT teams are currently on the way in an effort to contain the fumes, so we'd like to remind everyone once again to stay calm and stay indoors, the situation is under control. Remember, do not leave your home until further notice and please _remain calm_…"

"That's it," Jack breathed.

Bruce snapped out of his intense focus on the TV and turned to stare even more intently at the child. "…what's it?"

"That warehouse," Jack whispered, mesmerized by the sight of the building. "That's where…_he_ is. Where I told you he was. All his plans…all his weapons…"

But at the mention of the certain "he", Bruce had made a beeline for the Batpod, and, donning his pointy-eared cowl, roared off into the night. Jack's sentence trailed off into stillness as his eyes slowly regained their silent inferno. His lips pursed tight with quivering rage, he departed for his armor, his mind racing a mile a minute with the feverish fantasies of the night to come.

xxx

Joker was beside himself with delight. He could barely contain his pride for the little devil that had come up with the idea to release tear gas into the city. He had been wondering for quite some time as to what exactly Bruce had been experimenting with in his room, and had one day walked in to find him mixing up a fresh batch of bromoacetone. An innocent science experiment, Bruce had proclaimed, but Joker knew he had prepared far more sinister plans for his concoction. So they had continued together, brewing more and more until they finally had enough to infect the entire city with the toxic lachrymator. Now it stormed through the air, while the maniac perched himself on the roof of the warehouse, listening to the symphony of screams below.

Bruce, however, was not at the side of the clown as per usual. Instead, Joker had decided to reward the kid for his first original crime spree. The boy was somewhere in the fray, stalking the streets, a gas mask on his face and his long-anticipated AK in hand. He had worked hard the past two weeks, sometimes going without sleep or more than a bag of chips each day while absorbed in his work. That, and the successful riot at the elementary school, had definitely earned him the adrenaline romp he was no doubt enjoying at the moment.

Although he had to question the kid's tastes, Joker thought. _Tear gas_…it wasn't really his style. Now laughing gas, that would have been fucking _hilarious_; Joker let a laugh escape his throat at the thought. Yet, as much as he hated to admit it, he had grown more and more attached to the kid in the last three weeks, and had even developed a grudging respect for him. He could be an **intolerable** little asshole sometimes, and turned a _tad_ bit squeamish around actually hurting people, but…to his credit, he certainly had been a wonderful asset to the clown's endeavors. His brilliance, his sheer _genius_, never failed to surprise him; one day, he could very well measure up as his equal. _Well, maybe not_, he reasoned. He would only ever have one true equal in his eyes.

Suddenly, he perked up his ears to the ever-familiar roar of engines. Looking up, the small speck of the Batpod swam into view, the Batman riding on top of it. Joker nimbly leapt to his feet. It was about time his equal had come to join him, and this was a matter he was not willing to let the kid take care of himself. It was time to go. Time to fight.

Time to meet his Bat.

xxx

Jack weaved through the screaming crowd of Gothamites like a wraith in the shadows. In the mass panic, no one even noticed the little black-armored six-year-old with the gas mask to hide the enraged expression on his face. So Batman thought he was just a little lost puppy who could be trained to sit and stay while there was work to be done? Well, he'd show him just how dangerous this little puppy could be.

Once he reached the warehouse, he kicked down the door and tore past the parked Batpod he found inside. The room was huge, but that didn't stop him; he raced after the flapping black cape he spotted in the distance. Where Batman was going, there was sure to be a fight, and finally he'd be able to show the knight a thing or two about what he was really capable of…

Suddenly, his thoughts were interrupted by the rattle of heavy gunfire, aimed directly at the caped crusader. Most of the bullets glanced off his armor, yet two lodged themselves deep in the cracks, and he fell to the ground. His still form soon disappeared into the thickening tear gas, leaving Jack frozen in shock. The Batman had just been _gunned down_? No, no he couldn't have, he couldn't…no…NO!

Jack silently sprinted after the criminal who now dragged his guardian up the stairs, to the roof of the building.

xxx

Bruce met the leering grin of the Joker, triumph shining in his eyes as the unconscious body of the Batman lay between them. He knew that he should have let his guardian deal with the Bat himself, yet when he had spotted him making his way distractedly through the warehouse…it had just been too easy! Now, though, he wasn't sure he could read his mentor's delirious expression as congratulatory or…menacing. He knew he had been _asking_ for it when he had taken care of the Batman without consulting the clown, yet now at least the Joker could do what he wanted with his enemy, thanks to him. But regardless of whatever treatment Bruce was about to receive, he wasn't going to let his apprehension show through, not in the slightest. So it was with complete and utter confidence that he met the Joker's gaze as the madman delightfully took a step towards him, and –

– was suddenly knocked to the ground next to his adversary, a large lump swelling from the back of his head where the chunk of gravel had hit its mark. Bruce stared, dumbfounded at the prone form of the Joker crumpled next the vigilante. There was something fundamentally perverse with the image of his role model so powerless, and Bruce could barely process what his eyes were seeing. It was so _wrong_, it couldn't have just happened…never…**no…**

Sickened, he forced his eyes away from the sight, only to be confronted with a sight far worse. Standing on the edge of the roof across from him was a little blonde boy, clad in black armor quite similar to the Batman's, a slingshot in his right hand. His eyes were fixed on the machine gun clutched in Bruce's fist, and realization suddenly dawned over his gas-mask-obscured face. A quite similar expression spread over Bruce's facial features, and almost in unison they raised their eyes to meet each other's glare, the same thought echoing through their minds:

_You._

_The culprit behind the attack on my mentor. The one responsible for my guardian's defeat. The bastard who thinks he can spit in the good name of __my__ idol._

_Well, it ends here. NOW._

The two children launched themselves at each other, slingshot and AK forgotten. All of Jack's martial arts training left his memory as he let his all-consuming rage take control of his body. The concept of extra munitions stored in the building beneath him fled Bruce's mind, for all he needed to power his fight was the pure brutality of his reckless emotions. If there was one thing the boys had learned from their mentors, it was to use their instincts, and they kicked them into full gear as the two minigods collided in the wrestling match of the century.

The two clawed and shoved at each other viciously, neither one gaining an upper hand until Jack landed a punch right between Bruce's eyes. Bruce doubled back, yet before Jack could hit him again he grabbed Jack's wrist and kneed him in the stomach. Jack gagged as Bruce twisted his hold on his wrist, sending spurts of pain shooting up his arm. With a scream Jack lashed out with his free arm and yanked Bruce's hair, eliciting a cry of rage from the brunette. Snarling, they struggled in vain to wrestle themselves free from each other's grasp without slacking their own grips, until they couldn't stand the intense pain any longer and threw their weight against each other, tumbling to the rooftop in a mess of fierce blows and feral yells.

Neither one finding an advantage, they rolled around on the roof, biting and beating at each other wildly, until Bruce had Jack pinned against the edge of the ten-story drop below. He grinned as he pressed his forearm against the younger boy's neck, his sweet revenge achieved at last, when Jack returned the nasty sneer on his rival's face and flipped them both over, sending them over the edge as their gas masks went flying off their faces.

Jack clung to the ledge with his right hand fiercely, feeling the jagged concrete slide painfully from his clawing fingers, when he suddenly felt a weight tug at his left leg, lurching him downward a precious two inches. Bruce had locked his arms around the six-year-old's ankle, and refused to let go as the gaseous cloud obscured the ground below, blowing the distance of the drop wildly out of proportion. The foot he was strangling began to kick violently, but he maintained his desperate constriction of Jack's blood flow to his leg, making the boy in black armor woozy and causing the pair to slip millimeters closer to their deaths. _Maybe this hadn't been the best idea in the world_, Jack concluded sarcastically, sweat building up in his gloved palm.

A gloved palm that was suddenly grasped as a hand hefted the two boys back to the safety of the roof – and violently pulled Jack to meet the fury of his disapproving mentor.

"What the HELL do you think you're doing?" Batman roared in the child's face.

Bruce smirked at his enemy's humiliation, until he, too, was snatched toward his own enraged guardian.

"And just what do you think _you're_ up to?" Joker snapped at the eight-year-old.

"I was just – "

" – going straight back home! I told you that you were not to set one FOOT outside the door tonight!"

"But – "

"But nothing! This is the last of the outside of the warehouse you're going to see for a long while, so – "

Suddenly, both adults stopped could in their scolding tirades towards their sidekicks. Bewildered, Jack and Bruce swiveled around to follow their mentors' gazes, only to meet each other's eyes. Blinking in confusion, they faced each other awkwardly, not quite sure what exactly was going on. Jack then shifted his eyes behind Bruce, towards the eyes of the Joker, the man he had learned from Batman to hate with all his being, the man who stood against everything Batman fought for.

The man who was staring right at him, looking more shocked than Jack had thought it possible for someone to look.

In front of the rigid form of the Joker, Bruce felt dark eyes burning on him, and raised his eyes to the face of the Batman, whom he had loathed and despised every second of his stay with the Joker, who stood in the way of everything Joker worked to achieve.

Who was drinking in the sight of his young face, eyes frozen in his head as his mind refused to fully comprehend the familiar sight before him.

Feeling more and more ill at ease by the second, Bruce and Jack twisted their unmasked faces into looks of total confusion.

"…what?" they asked.

xxx

Batman slammed and bolted the door behind him. All he was sure of at the moment was that he needed. To. Keep. The. Two. Kids. Separated. Whatever was going on, he couldn't have his arch-nemesis and…himself…

…himself…

…_him_...

…Bruce Wayne before the night at the opera…

…he couldn't let them interact. Not now. Not anymore. Not ever. EVER again. It was wrong on so many levels.

So wrong.

What the hell was happening.

He realized he had been leaning against the door behind him with his eyes closed for the past thirty seconds, the picture of total stress. And that the Joker had been leeringly staring at him the entire time from his perch on a barrel of trinitrotoluene. Meeting his gaze, he was greeted with a knowing, face-splitting smile. A smile he definitely couldn't handle at the moment. He broke the eye contact and prowled over towards a window.

Noticing his counterpart's unease, Joker followed the knight's movements with his eyes, chin resting on his fist and propped up on an elbow. "Well, this has certainly been quite the interesting day for you, eh…_Bruce_?" He sneered out the last word, delighted to finally have a name to match the masked face. A first name, anyway.

And to top it all off, the Joker knew his name. Great. Just the icing on the cake. Perfect. Yet…he wasn't the only one with a new weapon.

"I could say the same for you, _Jack_."

Joker's lip curled as he bristled at the long-forgotten echo of his old name. However, he recovered quickly, and the smile leapt back into position as he changed tactics.

"So, while you have the two of them locked up in solitary confinement, what exactly is it you plan on doing?"

"Where did you find him?" Batman cut across his words. He had given up on patience; it was time to be direct.

Joker furrowed his brow at the odd question. "Why does that matter?"

Batman sighed deeply. It did no good hiding his intentions from the villain anymore; he needed his help. At this point, any nugget of information might hold the key to the horrible situation at hand, and if that meant working with his worst enemy to set things right, so be it.

"I'm going to try to figure this mess out and fix it," he answered.

He should have foreseen the laughter that issued from the clown at his admission, but it still didn't help his current aggravated state.

"Well, good for you then!" Joker squealed out, his mirth and abandon towards the entire situation grating at the dark knight's temper more and more. "Since you seem to have the situation _sooo_ under control, why would I want to interfere?" His laughter eventually diminished, and he continued with his probing question. "Honestly, why should _I_ help _you_ out with your own little time-space continuum dilemma?"

"Because it concerns yours, too."

That the Joker certainly did not expect, yet the answer rang with truth, he realized. As fantastic as the predicament was, is still posed the question as to how to return the eight-year-old Batman and six-year-old Joker back to their appropriate time, so that history could take its course. Suddenly the status quo didn't seem quite so quo anymore, Joker thought.

"The subway station," he answered finally.

"What were you doing?" Batman pressed further, hoping some insight would be gained.

Joker huffed in frustration at his enemy's pointless queries. "What, like that would make a difference?" he asked. "Look, there I was, committing those who'd given their lives for my cause to their final resting place," he smirked at the glorious memory, "when _he_ dropped into my life." Suddenly, he sniggered in reminiscence. "Actually, he kinda jumped me. Tried to kill me. Almost _did_, believe it or not," he added, raising his eyebrows as he flicked his eyes toward Batman, reading his stunned reaction with triumph. "Who knew that, once upon a time, little Batsy had such guts?"

Batman was taken aback. He had actually tried to kill. Not like when he had tried to murder Chill, which had been different, but that he had tried to take a life for no reason...not that one needed much of a reason with the Joker, he admitted, but still, it unnerved him. Yet what puzzled him further was that he had lived to tell the tale. That was a miracle he had never actually heard of until now. Searching for an explanation to the conundrum, he asked, "Why didn't you just kill him right off when you had the chance?"

"Because he's a little fucking genius."

Batman snapped his head around toward the Joker at the reply. The quiet admission from the psycho was definitely not what he had been expecting to hear. That the Joker had spared the life of a child – _his_ life, no less – on account of respect for his mind was unheard of. Meeting his old enemy's eyes, Joker shrugged in resignation.

"I guess he kinda reminded me of someone I know."

The look Batman found himself confronted with took him by surprise even further, if that were possible. Instead of the maddening gleams that normally issued from the murderer's eyes, a softer glow shone through. A glow of respect. He hadn't just spared Bruce because of his intelligence, but because deep down he had sensed something. Something of Batman. The thing that eternally bound them together, no matter what age they knew each other at. Perhaps, Batman reflected, that had been the very reason he had agreed to let Jack join him in his crusade. The glow in his eyes, that sometimes mirrored his own perfectly…whatever it was, it always brought them together, one way or another. He found his eyes issuing the same glow, reflecting the gaze of his other half, emitting the same toughened respect that had brought him to take Jack home with him to train him by his side.

"Well, that makes two of us," he murmured.

Joker burst out laughing, falling off the barrel of TNT in his mirth-filled convulsions.

Batman scowled, all respect vanishing from his face. "_What_ is so funny?"

Joker could barely gasp out the words in between breathless giggles.

"THERE **ARE** TWO OF US!"

xxx

Bruce quietly closed the door behind him, lest he alert the two adults to his lock-picking activities. Being barricaded in his room was _not_ an option at this point. Not with what had just happened. What they had just told him…told _them_…what he had seen and done…

Now, as he heard the familiar sound of his boss's hysterical laughter fill the room next to him, he took the opportunity to covertly slip through the side door into the room in which they had locked…the other one. He had heard him called Jack, but he refused to give him a proper name until he had figured a few things out for himself. It was time to know the truth.

Jack sat in the corner, facing the wall with his back to Bruce. Despite his stony silence, his body language spoke for him:

_No._

Bruce ignored his obvious request for solitude, and gingerly made his way over to the kid, setting down his lock-picking knife on a table where a few whiffs of the tear gas still escaped from their container. Jack still did not acknowledge his presence. Bruce cleared his throat, hoping to elicit a response.

"What do you want," Jack finally let out.

Bruce exhaled quickly. No sense in beating around the bush.

"I want you to look at me."

Although he still couldn't see his expression, Bruce could sense Jack's eyebrows knit together.

"Why?"

Bruce's lips tightened. He hadn't expected this to be easy, but his curiosity was sapping at his patience.

"I need to see it for myself," he answered quietly.

Jack's jaw clenched, his eyes rolling towards the rotting ceiling as he fumed at Bruce's response. "Believe what they said all you want," he growled, "it's not true."

It took all of Bruce's willpower not to clench into fists. Why was the little brat being so overly difficult? "Just look at me," he pleaded.

"No."

"Jack, look at me!" he commanded, blood pounding in his ears. He couldn't stand to hear his mouth betray his promise to not call the blonde by a name, yet his patience was running dry. Jack shook his head violently, unable to form words in his state of churning denial.

"LOOK AT ME!" Bruce screamed, and clapped a hand on Jack's shoulder to swivel him around, shoving his face in his own.

Both boys, blinded by seething rage, failed to initially register the sight before them. Then, slowly, their faces morphed into realization as the truth seeped into their minds, infecting every tendril of their thoughts. The shape of his nose; the angle of his cheekbones; the texture of his hair; the way his mouth twitched when emotions swirled in his head; the shape and color of his eyes…his eyes with all their murky, boiling depths…that glinted with that same familiar, terrible light…it was all there. All the same. The miniature forms of their Bat and Clown stared back at them, reeling in shock at their discovery.

"It really is you," Bruce breathed. And it was true. Give him a few years, some makeup, and a pair of scars, and he would have himself a Joker.

At those words, Jack set his expression in steel, his eyes flowing into pure defiance. "No, it's not," he gritted out. "I'm not him." If words alone could alter time, his would have turned the planets upside down. And with that, he returned to his previous staring contest with the wall.

"The hell you are," Bruce answered back, shooting down the flat denouncement of the world. "At least," he added quietly, resentment building up in his voice, "one day you'll be." His jealously threatening to get the best of him, he stood up to leave.

"Did it ever occur to you that maybe I don't WANT to grow up to be the Joker?" Jack snapped to the wall, stopping Bruce in his tracks. He turned back to Jack, his train of thought violently derailed, and all he could come up with in reply was:

"...**why**?"

Jack was flabbergasted by the question. Why did he _need_ to answer something like that? Nevertheless, he tried.

"He's a…" he struggled, unable to find a word strong enough to describe his feelings for the Joker.

"…a genius," Bruce finished his sentence, admiration dripping from his voice. If Jack weren't so disgusted he might have laughed out loud.

"A psycho," he corrected.

"A god," Bruce shot back in defense.

"A _freak_," Jack spit out scathingly. How could the prick idolize the psychopath so much? It was so…unnatural. So inhuman.

His pride in jeopardy, Bruce bit back with a remark of his own. "You think he's a freak, yet you aspire to one day be the guy who wears pointy ears on his head to scare people?"

"Better than the guy who cuts his face open and kills people for no reason!" Jack yelled back, his sullen vow of silence evaporating as he stood up and faced his rival.

Bruce immediately came to the defense of his beliefs. "He lives without rules," he said matter-of-factly. "Everything's funny to him. Who _wouldn't_ want that life?"

"I don't," Jack retorted to the brunette, his reserve and self-control bursting at the seams as he slowly advanced on Bruce, barraging him with his pent-up frustrations. "You've got it made. You're filthy rich, you've got someone to take care of you till the day you die, you've got all the women in the world at your feet to pick and choose from, and to top it all off you get to spend your nights flying around the city, showing people that they don't have to be afraid by letting the creeps know what they need to be afraid of." His eyes shining brightly, he panted at the end of his accusation that had quickly escalated into an all-out rant of his inward jealousy for the eight-year-old. The one who got to be who he dreamed of becoming. Quietly, he choked out his last envious admission: "You're the most powerful person in Gotham."

Bruce, at first intimidated and terrified by the tidal wave of wrath that Jack had just let loose, now focused his eyes on Jack's with a new, softer light. He was certainly surprised by the blonde's confession of near-total worship for his future self.

"You really…think that much of me?" he inquired incredulously.

Jack shrugged slightly in reply. "Who you're going to be," he answered.

Bruce scanned his future enemy's face for signs of sarcasm, but found none. The kid was telling the truth. He wanted to fill Bruce's shoes at that moment. But, Bruce realized, you can't always get what you want. "I still don't want it," he protested, sighing deeply in resignation. "Something seriously messed him up to make him that way. I don't want any part of it." He turned and made for the door.

Jack watched his slow progress towards the door, resentment building up in him again. "Oh, and you blame ME for not wanting the future?" he asked. "You think I want to live through whatever gave him the scars?"

That stopped Bruce cold. Although his envy of Jack's exciting future still burned in his chest, he realized he had overlooked that little detail. _The scars._ How selfish was he, to hate Jack for what he was going to be able to experience, when that experience was, indeed, life-scarring and tragic?

Yet, wishful thinking would get them nowhere, wouldn't change the facts. "We've still got to live through it," he replied with a heavy heart, "whether we want to or not."

"…what if we don't?"

The softly-posed question came to Bruce from a voice right behind him, and he turned in shock to bring himself nose to nose with Jack, whose eyes pulsed with the new idea that had just taken hold of his mind.

"What if we didn't have to take what fate threw at us?" he asked again, head spinning with mounting excitement. "What if we just…switched? Became the opposite side, what we wanted to be?"

Bruce started with the notion, and peered into Jack's eyes as Jack locked his focus on Bruce. The two drank up the other's gaze, searching for hope. Their visions swam with a paint-smeared Bruce and a cowl-covered Jack, tearing through the night with wild abandon, still keeping the universe in balance with their coexistence but in the identities that they _chose_ to inhabit, from their _own_ decisions, living the life _they_ yearned for,and _chose_ to yearn for…

But yet, all the hope Bruce found in the wild eyes of the young clown-to-be was false. Fake. It would never live on as more than a hope. They couldn't fight their fate. "You know it doesn't work that way," he submitted softly, lowering his gaze and turning around to leave.

As he slowly turned the doorknob so as not to make any sound, the room behind him filled with oppressive silence. A silence following the death of dreams. The stillness bored holes in Bruce as he opened the door to escape into his own room, to be alone with his thoughts.

"Not if I can help it."

His eyes widened, and he spun his head around, but the blonde was nowhere in view.

And the knife had vanished from sight.

xxx

Jack staggered half-blind in the pouring rain. With what little he could see, it made no difference; his eyes, when focused, portrayed an ugly, gray world to him, sodden and damp with crushing reality. As it was, his eyes did not see the sheet of water in front of his face, but rather a scarred ruby smile suspended in midair. Charcoal-ringed eyes gloated at his pitiful state, and a chalk-white face laughed with mockery at his futile attempts to run away from it.

Bruce couldn't have been right. He may be content to wait around on his lonesome until a cape and cowl fell out of the sky, but Jack sure wasn't. He didn't want this, **at all**. The sheer intensity of his un-desire was surely enough to scare the black doors of fate away from him, to leave him free to become that which he thirsted for. But the eyes and smile wouldn't leave him alone. They haunted him as he made his way through alleys and back roads, unsure and uncaring where exactly he was headed, so long as it carried him as far away from the…_freak_…as possible.

But the face kept coming back.

Jack shoved his stolen knife at the leering apparition, but it just cracked its smile wider and laughed louder as the rain pounded harder.

Oh, the stories. The stories that now reverberated through his conscience as he recalled each one with his steel trap of memory. His murderous, drunken father. His heartbroken wife. His sweat-dripping school bullies. His tyrannical boss. The unfeeling mafia. He had heard them all as he had studied Arkham video footage at Batman's request, to familiarize himself with the enemy.

With himself.

Yet he had come to the conclusion that none of the stories were true, or all of them were, each demon in his life widening the Glasgow grin further and further. It was always multiple choice with the clown. Always guessing.

And he didn't want to guess anymore.

Wielding the knife, meeting the glare of the eyes blacker than night that hung before him, he brought the blade up to his mouth. The face laughed louder at his weak attempt to change his fate, yet he didn't care, didn't care about what the face thought anymore, and he found himself laughing too, laughing at the face, with the face, for the face, because of the face, as sweet euphoria dribbled down his chin.

When it was over, Jack found he had achieved the impossible. He had altered time! The Joker was no more, slashed down as he cut the laughter away! For he wasn't laughing anymore. It hurt too much. But the face was gone. That was all that mattered to him at the moment, that the gleeful tormenting specter would terrorize him no longer. Exhausted, he sank to his knees and found himself gazing into a puddle of rainwater –

– only to find the face staring back at him.

The makeup was absent, but its effects lingered: the black eyes he had sustained from his rooftop fight with Bruce, with undercurrents of dark circles of pure mental exhaustion; the blood-red grin stretching over his entire face up to his ears as crimson liquid flowed from the fresh wounds; the pale white face that had been drained of all blood and emotion. His own eyes gleamed up at him, as if to say, "**HELLO! I'M STILL HERE!**"

What had he DONE.

Squelching footsteps approached him from behind as a lone figure made its way towards the soaked, kneeling six-year-old. Jack felt a warm hand on his shoulder, asking for answers.

"…Jack?"

But Jack had no answers anymore. His eyes closed with brimming tears, and he fell back into the eight-year-old arms of Bruce Wayne, as they both shuddered violently against the rain and the world.

As they huddled on the ground in the dark alleyway, the rain abruptly subsided, melting into nothingness as if it had never been. Voices sprang up all around them, swirling together as a strange batter of unfinished thoughts. Their minds reeling with the sensation, Bruce and Jack suddenly found themselves slipping out of focus, unable to quite recall what they had just been doing thirty seconds ago. Thirty seconds turned into a minute, two minutes, an hour, two days, _three weeks_…

"Bruce!" a woman's voice called out from the confusion.

Bruce Wayne's eyes snapped open as he returned from the strange otherworldly feeling. He suddenly realized he was hugging a shabby-looking kid off the streets. The kid snapped his head up without looking at Bruce, then leapt to his feet and ran off down the alleyway, his mind foggy with their mutual amnesia.

"Bruce!" the voice called again, materializing into the form of a very worried looking Martha Wayne, who rushed over to her son.

"Bruce, where on _earth_ have you been?" she asked, relief poking its way through her scolding tone. "And you're soaking wet! What have you been doing, young man?"

Bruce blinked in confusion. What _had_ he just been doing?

"I…don't know…" he trailed off.

His mother took his shaky reply to be one of concealment, and smiled as all mothers do when they have caught their children in a lie. "Well, whenever you're ready to tell me, you just let me know, okay?"

"Yeah…" Bruce mumbled, his eyes never leaving the deserted alleyway as his mother dragged him by the hand to where his father was waiting.

"I found him, Thomas," his mother announced to her husband. "We can go now."

"Oh, thank God!" Thomas Wayne exclaimed, quite relieved himself. "I thought we'd have to miss the opera! Now we wouldn't want _that_, would we?" He winked at Bruce playfully.

Bruce, quite distracted and disoriented, nodded absently as the Waynes made their way to the doors of Gotham's Opera House.

xxx

Batman stared out into the night atop Wayne Tower. It had been eight nights since the kids had disappeared into the torrential rain, eight nights of frantically scouring the streets, trying to find them to no avail. The search was hopeless, he knew, but that had sure as hell never stopped him before. Besides, this was important. If the two prodigies were out there, he had to find them and contain them before they messed with the order of time any further.

"Still haven't given up yet?" purred a metallic voice behind him. He had been so immersed in his thoughts he hadn't noticed the Joker's arrival. Normally, he wouldn't have tolerated his enemy being loose on the streets and not stashed away in Arkham, but the past week had been an exception; the Joker was as instrumental to finding the young duo as he was himself, so for now he had to allow him to remain free to help with the search. Lot of good it did him, however, for lately Joker hadn't shown up to help, which hardly surprised Batman. Yet he hadn't given up. Yet.

"They're out there somewhere," he murmured to the conglomeration of skyscrapers at their feet.

"Oh, I don't disagree with that," Joker said, padding forward to stand by the Bat's side. "They're definitely out there. Just…not in a place you'll ever be able to reach again."

If his bat ears could have swiveled, they would have turned to his left in the Joker's direction, puzzled at his words. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Well," Joker began, "I don't pretend to know much about these sorts of things, but my guess is they…moved on."

"To where?"

"To where they're supposed to be," Joker stated solemnly, and turned to leave.

Batman stood in shocked silence for a split second, before blurting out, "What are you playing at?"

Joker stopped mid-stride, and twirled around on his heel to rotate back towards the dark knight, nearly losing his balance in the process. "What on earth could you mean by that, Batsy?" he asked innocently, feigning hurt feelings.

Batman set his jaw at the madman's mock naivety. "Since when do you start wanting things the way they're supposed to be?" he accused. "You never want things the way they are. You'd jump at the chance to alter time, tip over the world, just for the hell of it. Who's to say _you_ didn't do something with them, just to change things?"

As Joker listened to his adversary's words, he gradually lowered his leg from its ballerina pose, and walked over to the edge of the building, hands folded behind his back in quiet pensiveness. There was a long pause in which he seemed to take in the words, pondering the best way to respond.

"Has it ever occurred to you, Bruce," he finally spoke, all joking and laughter drained from his manner, "that there are some things in this world that I don't want to change?"

He turned his head back towards the caped crusader, his piercing gaze deathly serious. Batman stared back, as the lightning in their eyes meshed together, completing the whole of their beings.

* * *

**So, if you were wondering how Bruce and Jack set in motion the events leading up to their transformations into Batman and Joker...it was because of Batman and Joker. **

**Yup, this is what happens when I start listening to Evanescence too much. The song "Hello" got to me. Whatcha gonna do.**

**Hey, I'm noticing that my chapters are getting longer as I go! I'm probably gonna need a new notebook soon...^^**

**Now it's time to put this story to bed (and myself, for that matter, it's 6:30 on Sunday morning and I haven't gone to sleep yet...apologies for typos), so I can get around to my expanding collection of one-shot ideas! T'will be brillig! Can't guarantee when I'll update next, this week's gonna be a killer, culminating with my five-day trip to Disneyworld with my orchestra, so I won't catch a break until sometime next week during spring break. But I'll definitely have stuff posted by then, if not before. :D**

**Thank you for your time. I'll get out of your hair for now. I bet Batman wishes Joker would tell him that one day. Cut him a well-deserved break.**


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